Tuesday, 1 July 2014

Solace

And now let my lips
To the split, fleshy nut
Of your dank, oily vulva
Press, caress, beseech,
My tongue to tell
Of your sorrowful solitude
And flitting pleasure.

This cup of our communion,
Your haunches robust, rude,
Offered in delicate urgency,
Seeking the merciful,
Tender, exhilarating trace
Of a dream of a vision
Opulent with hope.

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